


the many emotions of one johnny jhonny

by LittleDragonPrince



Category: Paranatural (Webcomic)
Genre: (so very minimal violence), And Making Bad Fic Decisions, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Bullying, Canon Queer Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Disability, Elementary School, Gen, I had to tag Johnny twice because he only just got a last name, Melodrama, Mental Health Talk?, Misgendering, Nonbinary Character, Pre-Canon, all of these minor character tags, also the story of stephen's massive scar because seriously, because tweens, headcanons abound, how the hell did a twelve year old get that thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 11:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3726292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleDragonPrince/pseuds/LittleDragonPrince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The irony of the situation didn’t escape him (which was a first, really).</p>
            </blockquote>





	the many emotions of one johnny jhonny

**Author's Note:**

> characters who were never meant to be taken seriously: Johnny
> 
> characters i decided to write moody character meta about: Johnny
> 
> save me from myself.

Johnny Jhonny was _not_ always angry.

Sure, he spent an inordinate amount of time frustrated, annoyed, miffed, and/or vexed, but he definitely wasn’t angry all the time. Anyone who suggested such a thing often got a swift punch to the neck.  In fact, the more people insisted he was angry all the time, the more time he spent angry.

The irony of the situation didn’t escape him (which was a first, really).

But Johnny couldn’t be angry all the time, since he also spent an inordinate amount of time feeling anxious. And he was anxious about how people thought he was angry all the time, and also about how they could possibly be right.

Some of Johnny’s first memories, after all, included this omnipresent “anger”. He couldn’t help it, not now and certainly not when he was younger.  The January air had been cold, biting at his cheeks, and he’d never liked the snow. The sweater he was wearing, a hand-me-down from a cousin, was made of scratchy brown wool, and it stung his skin worse than any winter wind.  The sensation made his chest ache and his head heavy and his throat tight, and the only way to get the feelings out was to scream and cry and try to rip the stupid sweater off his body, right there in the middle of the Walmart parking lot.

And if Johnny had been angry at the time, his mother had been _furious_.  She dragged him back to the car and buckled him in, scolding him the whole way. She told him that an itchy sweater was a dumb thing to get so mad about.  Which was curious, really, because he hadn’t actually felt _mad_.

But five-year-old Johnny didn’t know what a better word would have been. Heck, even _now,_ Johnny can’t quite find a name for it, so he doesn’t argue. He tells people that the clinking sound of glass on glass makes him “mad”.  He says the texture of bananas “pisses him off” _._ Lets everyone – including himself – believe that the reason he gets so worked up over those little things is because he has a bad temper.

When he started going to school, things only got worse. Because at school, nothing made _sense_ ; not the subjects, not the teachers, and certainly not the students.  And the less Johnny understood others, the less they understood him, and the feeling of talking without really saying anything was another sensation that made him angry.  It made him so angry, in fact, it got hard to breathe, and the first time that had happened, his first grade English teacher sent him to the nurse’s office.

It became clear, pretty quickly, that Johnny was the weak link here, and if his peers weren’t willing to meet him halfway, he’d have to go all out. The next three years of his academic career were spent paying more attention to people’s facial expressions than to actual lessons. His grades were poor, of course, but that was in character for him, and it was worth it when he realized he could actually properly place the expression on his third grade advisor’s face as _disappointment_.

So Johnny learned, in his own way. He taught himself what sarcasm was, and how to detect it, and how to tell when people were “serious angry” or “joking angry”; trained himself in social convention and tradition.

And… no, he wasn’t perfect at it; people found him aggressive and too loud and madcap.  But it was the best he could do, and in fourth grade it finally paid off, in the form of his first three friends.

First was Ollie, who was massive, even at age nine.  He was quiet, calm, and a little reminiscent of a brick, if bricks could steal kids’ PB&J sandwiches.

But more than anything, he was _patient_. At least, he was with Johnny, never wavering in their friendship no matter how many times Johnny had a tantrum. He even managed to learn what set his friend off, and always guided him away, with a hand that was pleasantly heavy on Johnny’s shoulder the same way his favorite blanket was heavy when he slept.  Ollie even let Johnny copy from his homework, sometimes, on Bad Days (which were days that were Decidedly Bad because absolutely everything made his skin itch, to the point he could barely move).

Then there was R.J., who, at first, didn’t make a lot of sense to Johnny. They were quiet too, but where Ollie was quiet from a lack of things to say, R.J. was quiet because of a surplus.  They were a tiny, wiry kid, who wore big hoodies specifically to hide as much of their body as possible.  And the pronouns were… tricky, at first, but they got to be easy.  He only wished other people thought so; it would’ve saved him a lot of bloody knuckles and letters home.

The first time Johnny’d done _that_ , R.J. had been flustered and annoyed.  “That’s not your job,” they had muttered, handing a dripping mass of paper towels to Johnny to wash his injured hands with, “Don’t worry about it.”

The second time, the kid had been a lot nastier about it, and when Johnny ended up with a broken nose, R.J. had been more worried than anything.

“That kid was in 9th grade!” they blustered, glaring sharply at Johnny in detention that week, “What were you thinking?”

Johnny had just shrugged, nose (and its bandage) crinkling around his smile as he replied, “Mostly jus’about how nobody – not even some wannaboo high schooler – gets away with calling my friends ‘ _it’._ ”

And R.J. had smiled, visible even from underneath their hood. They never left Johnny’s side after that.

Last, but not least, was Stephen, who was somehow both very similar to and very different from Johnny himself.  Neither of them really “got” people, but whereas Johnny never meant to be so confused, Stephen seemed to purposefully eschew every single social norm Johnny had pored over.  Stephen was the one who taught Johnny how to turn the rage into something productive, how to take all the anxious energy and expel it.

In simpler terms, Stephen was the one who taught Johnny how to fight.

“You gotta keep your fist tight and your wrist straight!” he declared, with all the confidence in the world, and Johnny tried his best to copy his form, “Else yer gonna break all your bones.”

“ _All_ my bones?” repeated Johnny, incredulous, as he threw a punch at the pillow they’d strung up from his ceiling for practice.

“Yep,” Stephen nodded gravely, “Every single one.”

The fighting did help, though.  The bottled up frustration and the nagging unease were easy to forget when Johnny had some kid’s shirt bundled tightly in one hand.  The detentions and the calls home were mostly ignored by his parents (a mother and a stepfather; the divorce was a long time ago, and mostly not talked about), who summed it up to “boys will be boys”. There were some punishments – tiny things, like no television or candy – but otherwise he was free to do as he pleased.

It was no wonder Stephen and Johnny got along so well, really, given that Stephen also seemed to be constantly enraged.  Both were restless, rascally children, with a penchant for violence in place of some _actual_ coping mechanisms.  But whereas Johnny’s anger was unwelcome and therefore uncontrollable, Stephen wore his wrath loud and proud; deliberate, almost.  If Johnny was a wildfire, Stephen was a firecracker.

…Or… something like that.

Either way, the four of them swiftly became inseparable, a pack of rough-and-tumble delinquents who terrorized their classmates for fun (and for profit, Johnny insisted, though Ollie was skeptical).  At some point, Johnny even unofficially became the head of his little gang, the ringleader who called all the shots. The shots were mainly “hey, let’s punch that guys’ lights out, it’ll be cool”, but the position of power made him feel… accomplished.  For the first time in his life, Johnny felt _pride_ – like he’d actually done something right.

The feeling never left, though.  That fulfilled, joyful buzz never vanished, so long as his gang was by his side.  The temper was still there, of course, a never-ending feeling of tenseness in his limbs, like a rubber band stretched too far.  But as the school months passed, Johnny forgot how to feel shame and learned how to feel confident.  Talking to others didn’t feel like a challenge, even when he messed up tremendously, and if all else failed he could use his fists instead of his words.

For all the skills Johnny had managed to learn, at least mediocrely, he still found making new friends hard.  But that was okay with him, because it was okay with the gang, and together they were all very good at making enemies.

And, once they had graduated elementary school and begun 5th grade, most of these enemies were students at Mayview Academy. The Mayview Academy was home to kids who were just as eccentric and just as prone to violence as Mayview Middle School students, but less likely to get in trouble for it. And with that privilege came an obnoxious sense of superiority, as though having more money made them better people automatically.

So, naturally, a rivalry sprung up between the schools’ different gangs of bullies.  After their scuffles however, if teachers ever found out, the academy kids would get a mere smack on the back of the wrist or a stern talking to, whereas Johnny had to endure Saturday detentions, clean up duty, and suspensions.  The injustice of these punishments only fueled the grudge between them, and the fights steadily got more and more intense. The blood feud between the two gangs got to be so great, they could barely be in the same part of Mayview without brawling.

It was one such brawl that ended up changing Johnny’s life forever (or rather, for the next few weeks, which feels like forever to a 5th grader). It started out pretty run of the mill – in fact, it was easier than most of their tussles.  The West Hill was _his_ gang’s turf, and everyone knew that.  Which was probably why the Academy students were even hanging around there anyway – to upset him.  He had never seen these kids before, though, and judging by their poor fighting skills, he estimated that they must be new to the vendetta.

Didn’t mean he was going to go easy on ‘em, though.

So the fight was going good.  It definitely seemed like Johnny’s gang was going to win.  It was easy to get cocky, and soon all four of them were making a big show about how weak their opponents were.  R.J. was ducking and weaving in between carefully aimed kicks, making sure to punctuate each strike with an over exaggerated yawn. Ollie sat comfortably on top of his foe, who could barely breathe, let alone fight back, from underneath him.

Stephen had a firm grasp on a kid’s collar, snarling and cackling like a hyena right in his face.  He was practically swinging the kid around by the neck, trying his best to create a spectacle. Stephen plopped the kid down with a triumphant war cry, leaning forward to call out, no doubt to Johnny, some kind of ridiculous taunt.

He did not get the chance to open his mouth, however, before the student he was terrorizing shoved his chest with both hands, as hard as they could. Which wouldn’t have been an issue if Stephen hadn’t been putting all his weight on one leg.  The push sent him toppling backwards, with a frightened cry.

Which, again, wouldn’t have been an issue… if Stephen hadn’t been standing right on the edge of the hill.

Johnny, R.J., and Ollie could do nothing but watch in horror as their friend disappeared, tumbling down and out of sight, screaming the whole way.

“Stephen!” Ollie yelled, standing immediately; the boy he’d been crushing inhaled audibly, before immediately breaking into a fit of guttural coughs. Ollie had never been very expressive, but the worry and shock on his face was tangible, even to Johnny.

And if the looks of open terror on the remaining Academy students’ faces were anything to go by, the pure rage Johnny was feeling was most definitely tangible, too.  Rumors of his fiery temper were no doubt present in other schools. These kids probably just realized what a huge mistake they’d made, pissing off Johnny Jhonny.

And this time, Johnny _knew_ it was anger he was feeling, as he rounded on the kid who had shoved Stephen down the hill, fists clenched tightly.  Every single nerve in his body was telling him to pummel these punks with all he had, until they regretted being _born_ in the same lifetime as him –

…But Johnny had other things to worry about.  Specifically one other thing – Stephen. And whatever injuries he may have sustained from falling so far.  With a terse gesture of his hand, he called Ollie and R.J. (who was quaking with anxiety in relative silence) over to him.  The idea of retreating hurt Johnny’s pride a bit, if he was being honest, but there was no other choice.  He made sure to growl menacingly in his rivals’ direction, to let them know that it was a hollow victory, that they were winning only by default. The fright on their faces was enough to soothe his bruised ego.

The trio found Stephen crouched about half way down the hill, wiping his face with his hands in a pitiful attempt to clean himself up. Once they were by his side, they could fully examine the damage.

On his face was the most blood Johnny had ever seen, which, to be fair, wasn’t saying anything.  As a ten year old, Johnny’s experience with blood was limited to nose bleeds and paper cuts, but the sight was still shocking.  Bits of gravel and dirt and grass clung to the wounds, making it look a lot grislier than it was.

“Wuh – Johnny,” said Stephen, speech garbled by swollen lips, “What are you doing down here? Shouldn’t ya be pounding on those jerks still?”

Johnny, who was presently shaking with barely contained rage, didn’t get a chance to answer; Ollie spoke for him, in an oddly soothing voice.

“Forget about ‘em,” he grumbled, “We beat ‘em good enough that they know not to come back around here.”

“Yeah,” chimed R.J., who was still clearly shaken up – they’d always been a bit of a worrywart, and the mess that was Stephen’s face was obviously upsetting them.

But Stephen didn’t seem convinced, as he roughly wiped at his injury with both hands.  He seemed to be waiting for Johnny to confirm that it was okay that the fight ended, and that he wasn’t mad at Stephen for being defeated.

With a sigh and a mutter and a shake of the head, Johnny said in what he hoped was a casual voice, “ _Yeah_ , bro, we weren’t gonna keep fightin’ withou’cha.”

The reassurance made Stephen beam brightly – which, in turn, made him wince. But the tension was successfully dissipated, and the gang could get on with the day.

Ollie ended up giving Stephen a piggyback ride back to his house, where his mother immediately began fretting and panicking.  They did their best to explain away the injury, not as a war wound, but as the result of a misfortunate accident when they were playing innocently on the hill.  She bought it, thankfully, and washed the wound out only to find it was mostly superficial. The scrapes were shallow, but they would definitely scar.  When Stephen had received that piece of news, he’d grinned like a shark.

“I’m gonna look so tough!” he boasted, as R.J. huffed in mock jealousy.

Some phone calls were made, to each of their own households, and after much pleading, they were all allowed to spend the night at Stephen’s.

Once they had permission, the quartet immediately fled to Stephen’s bedroom, where they decided on watching as many R-rated films as they could scavenge from his older brother’s room.  Ollie sat on the floor, like always, leaning against the foot of bed; R.J. curled up in his lap, much like a cat.  Johnny perched himself on the mattress’ edge, as usual, rocking back and forth a little bit as he watched.  Stephen laid out on his stomach, kicking his legs out behind him as he loudly whispered commentary throughout the entire film (much to R.J.’s chronic frustration, who loved movies more than all of them combined).

Things were normal – as they always had been – yet something was different. Life was confusing that way, for Johnny. Everything always seemed so contradictory.

How things could be so normal and yet so different from the norm. How Ollie could be that large and brutal but also that clever and patient.  How R.J. could literally hide their face at all times and still be so sensitive. How Stephen could seem so determined to be independent while still relying so much on his friends.

How people could believe Johnny was truly always angry, when, at that moment, he felt nothing but content.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm literally crying i cannot believe myself. this is a new level of Weird Trash Baby. damn me & damn my love for minor characters.
> 
> so i kept what ever neurological disorder/disability johnny has ambiguous on Purpose, for no reason other than "i'm not comfortable writing an explicit diagnosis for a character" but like, i tried to talk about some of the issues i experience as somebody with a neurological disability (emotional regulation, pent up energy, sensory sensitivity, misunderstanding social cues, etc.). i know im gonna get like maybe somebody tellin me that johnny CAN'T have a disability or something cuz X, Y, & Z but please just let me have this. ple as e.
> 
> Like all my fics this is Unedited so don't be surprised if there's like..... lots of errors.. heh. i'll go back and proofread when im not so tired.
> 
> anyways!!! yeah i think i'm making a pretty good Brand for myself as a writer of niche fics nobody needs ✌✌✌


End file.
